The Way of the Winning of Anne Page #2

"The Way of the Winning of Anne" is a novel by Lucy Maud Montgomery that continues the beloved story of Anne Shirley, a spirited and imaginative young woman from Avonlea. This narrative delves into Anne's journey as she faces new challenges and experiences the complexities of love, friendship, and self-discovery. Set against the backdrop of rural Canada, the story highlights Anne's growth and her enduring passion for life, all while maintaining Montgomery's signature blend of warmth, humor, and poignant reflection. Through Anne's eyes, readers are invited to explore themes of ambition, resilience, and the power of dreams.

• Short story

								

quite so much time gossiping up the lane with Sam Mitchell. He always
was a fetch-and-carry. Young girls oughtn't to be so pert."

When the subdued Octavia had gone, Anne tossed the broken eggshell out
of the pantry window viciously enough.

"There's no fool like an old fool. Jerome Irving always was an idiot.
The idea of his going after Harriet Warren! He's old enough to be her
father. And a Warren, too! I've seen the time an Irving wouldn't be
seen on the same side of the road with a Warren. Well, anyhow, I don't
care, and he needn't suppose I will. It will be a relief not to have
him hanging around any longer."

It might have been a relief, but Anne felt strangely lonely as she
walked home alone from prayer meeting the next night. Jerome had not
been there. The Warrens were Methodists and Anne rightly guessed that
he had gone to the Methodist prayer meeting at Cherry Valley.

"Dancing attendance on Harriet," she said to herself scornfully.

When she got home she looked at her face in the glass more critically
than she had done for years. Anne Stockard at her best had never been
pretty. When young she had been called "gawky." She was very tall and
her figure was lank and angular. She had a long, pale face and dusky
hair. Her eyes had been good--a glimmering hazel, large and
long-lashed. They were pretty yet, but the crow's feet about them were
plainly visible. There were brackets around her mouth too, and her
cheeks were hollow. Anne suddenly realized, as she had never realized
before, that she had grown old--that her youth was left far behind.
She was an old maid, and Harriet Warren was young, and pretty. Anne's
long, thin lips suddenly quivered.

"I declare, I'm a worse fool than Jerome," she said angrily.

When Saturday night came Jerome did not. The corner of the big,
old-fashioned porch where he usually sat looked bare and lonely. Anne
was short with Octavia and boxed the cat's ears and raged at herself.
What did she care if Jerome Irving never came again? She could have
married him years ago if she had wanted to--everybody knew that!

At sunset she saw a buggy drive past her gate. Even at that distance
she recognized Harriet Warren's handsome, high-coloured profile. It
was Jerome's new buggy and Jerome was driving. The wheel spokes
flashed in the sunlight as they crept up the hill. Perhaps they
dazzled Anne's eyes a little; at least, for that or some other reason
she dabbed her hand viciously over them as she turned sharply about
and went upstairs. Octavia was practising her music lesson in the
parlour below and singing in a sweet shrill voice. The hired men were
laughing and talking in the yard. Anne slammed down her window and
banged her door and then lay down on her bed; she said her head ached.

The Deep Meadows people were amused and made joking remarks to Anne,
which she had to take amiably because she had no excuse for resenting
them. In reality they stung her pride unendurably. When Jerome had
gone she realized that she had no other intimate friend and that she
was a very lonely woman whom nobody cared about. One night--it was
three weeks afterward--she met Jerome and Harriet squarely. She was
walking to church with Octavia, and they were driving in the opposite
direction. Jerome had his new buggy and crimson lap robe. His horse's
coat shone like satin and had rosettes of crimson on his bridle.
Jerome was dressed extremely well and looked quite young, with his
round, ruddy, clean-shaven face and clear blue eyes.

Harriet was sitting primly and consciously by his side; she was a very
handsome girl with bold eyes and was somewhat overdressed. She wore a
big flowery hat and a white lace veil and looked at Anne with a
supercilious smile.

Anne felt dowdy and old; she was very pale. Jerome lifted his hat and
bowed pleasantly as they drove past. Suddenly Harriet laughed out.
Anne did not look back, but her face crimsoned darkly. Was that girl
laughing at her? She trembled with anger and a sharp, hurt feeling.
When she got home that night she sat a long while by her window.

Jerome was gone--and he let Harriet Warren laugh at her and he would
never come back to her. Well, it did not matter, but she had been a
fool. Only it had never occurred to her that Jerome could act so.

"If I'd thought he would I mightn't have been so sharp with him," was
as far as she would let herself go even in thought.

When four weeks had elapsed Jerome came over one Saturday night. He
was fluttered and anxious, but hid it in a masterly manner.

Anne was taken by surprise. She had not thought he would ever come
again, and was off her guard. He had come around the porch corner
abruptly as she stood there in the dusk, and she started very
perceptibly.

"Good evening, Anne," he said, easily and unblushingly.

Anne choked up. She was very angry, or thought she was. Jerome
appeared not to notice her lack of welcome. He sat coolly down in his
old place. His heart was beating like a hammer, but Anne did not know
that.

"I suppose," she said cuttingly, "that you're on your way down to the
bridge. It's almost a pity for you to waste time stopping here at all,
any more than you have of late. No doubt Harriet'll be expecting you."

A gleam of satisfaction flashed over Jerome's face. He looked shrewdly
at Anne, who was not looking at him, but was staring uncompromisingly
out over the poppy beds. A jealous woman always gives herself away. If
Anne had been indifferent she would not have given him that slap in
the face.

"I dunno's she will," he replied coolly. "I didn't say for sure
whether I'd be down tonight or not. It's so long since I had a chat
with you I thought I'd drop in for a spell. But of course if I'm not
wanted I can go where I will be."

Anne could not get back her self-control. Her nerves were "all strung
up," as she would have said. She had a feeling that she was right on
the brink of a "scene," but she could not help herself.

"I guess it doesn't matter much what I want," she said stonily. "At
any rate, it hasn't seemed that way lately. You don't care, of course.
Oh, no! Harriet Warren is all you care about. Well, I wish you joy of
her."

Jerome looked puzzled, or pretended to. In reality he was hugging
himself with delight.

"I don't just understand you, Anne," he said hesitatingly "You appear
to be vexed about something."

"I? Oh, no, I'm not, Mr. Irving. Of course old friends don't count
now. Well, I've no doubt new ones will wear just as well."

"If it's about my going to see Harriet," said Jerome easily "I don't
see as how it can matter much to you. Goodness knows, you took enough
pains to show me you didn't want me. I don't blame you. A woman has a
right to please herself, and a man ought to have sense to take his
answer and go. I hadn't, and that's where I made my mistake. I don't
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